


What You Pay For

by chthonianCrocuta (lovesthesoundof)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesthesoundof/pseuds/chthonianCrocuta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't have time for pleasantries; Mother will be home by six. I need you to find some information for me."</p><p>She seems unperturbed. "Very good. What do you need?"</p><p>You toss your satchel on to your bed and drop into the chair opposite her - the real one, you remind yourself. "The police have made an arrest. Their suspect's name is Vrislana Marin. I need you to find out what she told them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude - Covenant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Innsmouth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innsmouth/gifts).



> Happy birthday, H. Sorry it's so late; it kinda outgrew its deadline.

Midnight. Forest song outside your window, muffled by glass. No moon tonight, only the glow of city lights far on the horizon. Now the scrape and flare of a match. Shadows flicker, coalesce, drift. One, two, three bold little flames, then the puff of your breath when the match burns down too low. The shadows drift again; they slide across the half-cleared clutter of your bedroom as you carry the red candle around the circle of salt, lighting the rest of its twelve fellows before returning it to its place.

They found her nine days ago.

You sit beside the circle and try not to think of her. It disturbs you that the image of her face is already growing hazy in your mind's eye, that you can more easily recall the pattern of her favourite chador than the shape of her mouth. At any rate, your mind must be clear of her. The last thing you want is for her to hear you. She wouldn't approve of what you're about to do for her.

True to form, you're going to do it anyway.

Resolved, you look into the centre of the candlelit circle. The water in the stone bowl is still and glassy, a perfect reflective surface. The fact that the bowl itself is technically the top of a bird bath won't matter; it's dark and smooth and unadorned, exactly what the ritual calls for. You've been thinking of using the stone base it came with to make a lectern for a grimoire, but that will have to wait. For now, the book lies open on the floor beside you.

You run your fingers lightly over the pages, making sure you're still looking at the correct incantation, and take a deep, steadying breath.

Showtime.

You read slowly, deliberately, like a child following along with its fingertip. You've never spoken these words aloud before. Enochian is a difficult language for mortals to pronounce, but rehearsal is too dangerous to contemplate: the wrong combination of words from a mortal tongue might begin any manner of unprotected summoning, and the consequences of that could be anywhere from embarrassing to downright lethal. For the first few lines nothing seems to happen, which is far more unnerving than seeing immediate results, but you press on -

...and then, as you reach TELOC VOVIM about half way through the fifth line, the candle flames all flicker in perfect, impossible unison, as though all blown simultaneously in toward the centre of the circle.

It's working.

An unnatural quiet begins to settle over the room as you continue the incantation. The shadows deepen, yet the candle flames grow brighter. Once you've pronounced the last words - EMNA OL ADNA ZNRZA - there's a thick, heavy moment of anticipation, like that instant when you've touched something hot and the pain has yet to register.

And then the water catches fire.

The book doesn't tell you exactly what to expect. All it says is "the demon will appear in the circle and must be commanded to take human form". It doesn't mention anything about the accompanying pyrotechnics, which only get more spectacular a few moments after the initial flash of ignition. A twisting column of fire rises up from the bowl, as though you've reached in and spun it around (but you never reach into the circle, no, that is the **worst** thing you could do), and somewhere within the depths of the flame you think you see features - eyes, mostly, terrible eyes - flickering in and out of existence.

**_S̗̭͇ͅO̰̣͉͈̱Ḷ͍̪̯̞͉͔P͎̦ͅE̜̹̙̦TH̹̫ ͈̻̗̭̘T̬̣̺E͈L͎̙̯̰O̻̲̼̟̣̙͇C̰̥̟͔̟̲̙V̘͓̦̻͕̰̞Ọ͎͍̖̫̲V̭̟͇͕͉ͅI̳͚̣̘̭̝M̭̟!_ **

Oh. Oh, you have never heard Enochian spoken by a native before. It's like the roar of a furnace, like a swarm of insects thrumming inside your chest cavity, and you both desperately crave it and never want to hear it again. This, **this** is power.

**_B̪͍͙͈I̫̮͍̠̟̩A͖͔̞̱H̥͙̫̘͔̠ ̣͙͈M͖I̺̤̫͉̺̥C̳̠͙̙M͙͔A̯!̞͈̳͇͖͓_ **

But you have contained it, for now. You are in control. Only that knowledge gives you the strength to remain calm. You fix the demon's shifting form with as cool a stare as you can muster. "That's quite enough of that, thank you," you say, a little primly. "I refuse to negotiate with a pillar of flame. Human form, if you please - if you ever want to get out of this circle again."

The fire flares up with a roar. You squint, feeling the heat on your face -

...and then, blinking, adjust to candlelight. The twisting flame is gone. The water ripples as droplets fall back into the bowl.

With a soft splash, the demon steps out on to your bedroom floor.

Candlelight softens a first impression of anyone. It does the demon's chosen form particular favours, though: her slicked red hair is all the more dramatic in this light, and her eyes - blue, perhaps, or green - sparkle with reflected flames. Her skin is densely freckled, and the way the light catches it makes you realise she's not only naked but **wet** , dripping wet from head to toe, as though she climbed out of the bowl in that shape instead of materialising from a column of fire. As you watch, she runs thin hands through her hair and with a _tssss_ of steam it dries, instantly, given volume by the passage of her fingers.

This is the closest you've ever been to a naked woman, and she isn't even human.

Dismissing that sobering thought, you sit back and take her in. You watch as she examines her new body, her slender limbs and boyish frame, the subtle play of muscles under the mottled cream of her skin. She reminds you of Teresa Drake, now that you think of it; the red hair, the complete patina of freckles, the thin bones and sharp lines, the set of the eyes. This is much closer than you wanted to come to seeing Terri naked, if you're honest, and closer still than you wanted to come to finding her attractive - but the demon's form has twenty years on your classmate, has all the lithe grace her spindly frame seems to aspire to and more, and if your gaze is momentarily caught on a droplet of water rolling down over perfect abs then, well, you need never tell a soul.

Abruptly the demon snaps her fingers, jolting you out of your reverie. There's a _whmf_ noise like a puff of flame; black smoke briefly obscures her from view. Once it clears, she's wearing a black suit jacket and trousers, a crisp white shirt, glossy red block-heeled boots and a red waistcoat in something satiny and sleek. The buttons are shaped like dragons' heads.

She looks down at you from all of five foot two in heels. Over the top of red-tinted oval shades, she meets your gaze for the first time. Her smile is all teeth, and her voice is all smoke and knives.

"How do I look?"

You consider your answer for a couple of seconds. The most important thing is **not** to use any variation on the theme of _stunning_ , which is a lot harder than it sounds. "Disturbingly like someone I know, if that someone were older and genuinely attractive. Well done."

The demon laughs. Her laughter has a razor's edge. "Congratulate yourself, mortal! I may be occupying this form, but it is **your** mind, not mine, that provides the source material."

"So in that sense you can hardly look like someone I **don't** know," you conclude, raising an eyebrow at her candour. "How curious. Thank you for that tidbit; I certainly didn't ask for it."

"With compliments!" she chirps, still grinning. "All the better to whet your appetite, my dear. So!" She claps her hands. God, she even has Terri's strident cheerfulness. "Of what shall we speak tonight?"

"Justice."

You expected her to laugh again, to mock the very idea, but she doesn't. Her smile vanishes. She moves closer to you, right up to the edge of the circle of salt, and lowers herself to your eye level, sitting cross-legged with her hands folded in her lap. Even this close, you can't decide if her eyes are green or blue.

"You have my attention."

It's quite something, hearing a voice like hers sound as soft and sincere as a prayer.

This is the part you've worried about, telling your story. The demon's grave expression and steady gaze are reassuring, though, far more so than that smile would be, so you begin without much trepidation.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, though you do not tell her this. What you do tell her is that two weeks ago, your girlfriend - Kanya Maryam - disappeared. Five days later, her body was found in a shallow grave by a woman walking her dog. Her remains showed all the signs of a sudden, violent death.

Beyond that, you know nothing.

You do not tell the demon that part of you never **wants** to know more. You tell her instead that you need to, that your faith in the police investigation diminishes with every passing hour, that the carelessness with which they've seemed to handle every part of this case makes you - you do not say _sick_ , no, you say _disappointed_ , because to reveal too much of one's heart to a demon is a perilous thing indeed. And all the while she is nodding along, taking in the sparse facts you have to offer, not once interrupting you. Only once you have finished does she speak again.

"Let me see if I understand: you think the investigation is stalled, you have no way of obtaining information from the police, so you come to me for help finding the killer on your own."

"Broadly, yes."

She nods slowly. "I don't know who it is; I'll be up front about that much."

You wave away the remark. "Never mind. Even if you had known I'd need enough evidence to tip off the police."

"A proper hunt, then?"

Her smile is beginning to return. She looks forward to hunting your enemy. There's a little thrill somewhere deep inside you - a dark, twisted excitement. "That was the plan."

"Wonderful." She claps her hands again. "Will you allow me to make an offer that will suit your needs?"

Now **this** is the perilous part. She'll lay out all the terms and conditions, including the small print, and there's no way in Hell or on Earth that she'll repeat or explain anything. You steeple your fingers, silently steeling yourself for the battle of wits to follow. "Proceed."

She rises then, unfolding with a strange, inhuman elegance. She paces within the circle, back and forth, back and forth. After half a minute or so, she begins to speak. "You may call me to you six times. Six times, no more. Call to me in a reflective glass; that is all I require. Upon each occasion we may speak for up to an hour, during which you may ask as many pertinent questions as you wish and may expect to receive answers as true, accurate and complete as my knowledge at the time allows. Excess time shall not be carried forward." She's gesturing as she speaks, like punctuation. It helps you to follow, but she's a sufficiently engaging speaker that you would have managed without. "You may, upon each occasion, also ask me to retrieve some information that is inaccessible to you, such as that held by the police or some other third party. You must know who holds the information or where it is held, or otherwise be able to determine with some accuracy the nature of its location in conceptual space. Secrets held true, those neither spoken to an audience nor recorded, I cannot give you. I can relay to you a conversation between the two detectives assigned to the case; I cannot relay to you the killer's internal monologue. You may only make one such request per occasion of calling, and if you wish to make one it must be the first thing you ask of me. Once an hour has elapsed from any instance of calling, I shall depart without further discussion. Once you have called upon me six times and either dismissed me that sixth time or spoken with me for the full hour, I shall no longer be under your power. Your ability to call me to you will remain, but your protection from me, as granted by this summoning, will not. I will not tell you how much time remains before my departure. I will not tell you how many instances of summoning remain. I will not use my power in any manner that does not relate to your investigation, nor do I guarantee that my responses to any unrelated questions or statements will be true, accurate or complete. Abide by these terms as I have laid them out to you and you will be safe from me. Break covenant with me and that assurance is withdrawn." She smiles. It is a hungry smile. "Do you accept my offer?"

It's a good offer. You have no doubt that if you accept, she will help you find Kanya's killer. But she will try to take your soul by whatever means her spoken contract still leaves to her, you have the creeping suspicion she's at least as cunning as you are, and this is your **very** last chance to back out.

Instead, you say, "Yes."

"And thus our bargain is struck." She's standing close to you again, right at the edge of the circle. Her smile has a warmer quality to it now, but also a mischievous one. She holds out her hand. "Shall we shake on it?"

If you'd needed a reminder that you're dealing with a deceitful creature, that was it. You raise an eyebrow, glance at your book for show, and quote from memory: "Under no circumstances do you cross the line into the circle; this will allow the demon to possess your physical form and trap your soul in Hell."

The demon laughs and claps her hands. "Good! Very good. You **have** done your homework. But we must seal this bargain somehow, little mistress. What other methods do you know of sealing a bargain?"

Unfortunately, she's right. You hum thoughtfully. "The exchange of true names, inadvisable for the inherent race conditions...mutual blood sacrifice, no, much too sophomoric...the exchange of gifts, that's a possibility. What does one give the demon who has everything?"

"Was that a question?"

Her smile shows all her teeth. Fuck. Every answer must be paid for, and your idle musing did not fall within the bounds of your contract. You wave her question away as casually as you can, unsettled by the near miss. "Rhetorical. The gifts are symbolic; taking your tastes into consideration would be a courtesy." An idea suddenly occurs to you. "...Having said which..." You rise, go to your wardrobe and take out a red silk necktie. It's cold in your hands, liquid-smooth and full of fading memories. "Kanya only once managed to talk me into cosplay. This was part of the costume. My reasons for keeping it are...beyond my power to articulate at present, but I kept it nonetheless." You swallow the lump in your throat, steady yourself, and decide. "...It's yours now. Take it."

You toss the necktie into the circle. There's no fizzle as it passes over the salt; to anyone or anything save the demon, that barrier is intangible. The demon's fingers close deftly around the silk a moment later. She runs it through her hands, holds it up in the candlelight to watch it shine, then gives a satisfied hum and ties it under her collar, a practiced full Windsor knot that she tugs carefully into alignment. After a pause to admire her reflection in the bowl of water, she dips her fingers into her jacket pocket and takes out something round and flat with a bright metallic gleam. "Here."

You catch it reflexively in both hands; it's cold, but apparently not dangerous. You turn it over between your fingers, looking at the intricately worked silver. "...It's..."

"A watch," the demon prompts.

It is indeed a watch, a silver fob watch, showing signs of a little tarnish in the grooves of its decoration but otherwise in perfect condition. You pop the front cover open and watch the delicate red second hand tick, tick, tick. "Does it...do anything?"

This time the demon is the one raising an eyebrow, but she does it with a smile. You're amusing her. "It keeps good time."

"I have been in want of such a thing," you murmur, in part to yourself, as you press the cover shut with a satisfying click. "Did you know that?"

"Unrelated to the gift and its function!" the demon says, wearing that toothy grin again. "Was that a question?"

You almost slap your forehead in consternation. For fuck's sake, that's twice now - twice you've fucked up, and twice she's warned you off before you could do something irreparable. You give her a careful look as you approach the circle again. "If it was, it's hereby withdrawn. You're being very gentle with me."

"I can tell I'm your first."

...Oh. You could have done **without** the way her voice dropped an octave on that statement. You could **definitely** have done without the smirk. Your ears are burning. "...Well," you say, keen beyond all words to press on past this juncture in the conversation, "I think that settles everything for the time being - oh, no, just a moment." Dammit, she almost flustered you out of settling something important. "Since we're not exchanging true names...what would you like me to call you?"

She's just tall enough, with those heels, to look down at you. Her smile has the knowing of millennia.

"...Red," she says. "Call me Red."

You've taken all possible precautions, you've failed to throw yourself into a couple of obvious traps (thanks to her), and yet it is **now** \- not back at the point of no return - that you begin to suspect you've made a horrible mistake. To your credit, you manage not to show your unease. "Very well, Red. You may be gone unto the blackest pit from whence you came at your leisure; I'll call upon you again when I have need of your counsel."

Red nods once, still smiling. "It is commanded and understood." She turns from you and steps into the water. "Only six times, little mistress. Don't forget."

"I won't," you say to the flash of flame, and then she is gone.


	2. One - Testimony

When next you speak the demon's name - or the name she's chosen, at any rate - it's with more hesitance than you'd have liked. The dreamlike quality of the witching hour is gone; it's five forty-three in the evening, and natural light renders your bedroom decidedly mundane. Part of you doubts she'll return when commanded. Part of you doubts you summoned her at all.

But when you look into the mirror and softly call to her - "Red?" - there she is. No roll of thunder heralds her arrival, no flash of flame, neither earthquake nor rain of blood. Your reflection simply flickers once, and melts into her grin.

"Good evening, little mistress!" says the demon, **your** demon, leaning her elbows on the reflection of your vanity and steepling her fingers. "Can you hear me clearly? Are you well?"

She's warm and charming and asking after your health, and she's just as irritatingly attractive as you remember. You're almost taken in. Almost. But the pact was clear: if you want her to go hunting for truths you can't find on your own, you have to ask her straight away. "I don't have time for pleasantries; Mother will be home by six. I need you to find some information for me."

She seems unperturbed. "Very good. What do you need?"

You toss your satchel on to your bed and drop into the chair opposite her - the real one, you remind yourself. "The police have made an arrest. Their suspect's name is Vrislana Marin. I need you to find out what she told them."

"Vrislana Marin," the demon repeats. "Vrislana Marin..."

The image in the mirror flickers again. After a moment, both the demon and the reflection of your bedroom vanish - and you're looking instead into a room with grey painted walls, harsh white light and dented furniture. One table, three chairs. Two unknown figures sit with their backs to you. On the other side of the table, a familiar face twists into a disdainful sneer.

"Vrislana Serkeevna Marinova. You should be calling me Vrislana Serkeevna. Vriska is for people I like."

The scene grows artificially still, as though someone has pressed the pause button, and the demon flickers into being. She gestures toward the girl in the chair. "Is this her?"

It is. She's just as scruffy as ever. "Yes."

The demon nods. "Watch closely. You will see this only once."

Another flicker, and she's gone. The figures in the room have moved slightly, as though you've missed a chunk of time. As you watch, Vrislana Marin begins to speak.

"I didn't kill her, okay? She was dead when I found her. Like, **super** dead. Massive hole through her stomach kind of dead. But we'd had that fight, so I knew everybody was just going to assume I did it. So I buried her right where I found her."

Of course she did. If Vrislana ever manages practicality, it's of the callous kind. You steel yourself to keep watching, observing her manner of speech - as ever, she talks with her whole body, with the whole range of her voice, as though speaking to the back of some invisible auditorium.

"I got the shovel from the shed back home, I came back, I put a stake through her heart - which is hard, by the way! - and I buried her. I said some words and made as many stupid god symbols as I could think of to stop her from turning into a vampire or whatever, and I went home. And if Anya with her stupid big mouth hadn't've seen me putting the shovel back you guys would never have figured it was me. Which it was **not**. Like I said."

After some moments of silence, one of the detectives prompts her. "You said you had a fight with the victim. What did you fight about?"

Vrislana scoffs. "The same old shit as always. I'm too reckless, I'm too irresponsible, she doesn't wanna run around after me any more... She always had a thing for me. I think she takes it out on me when her girlfriend's too much like me and she doesn't wanna fight with her, y'know? Did you talk to her yet? Rose Lalonde?"

They haven't. Without your consent, your hand curls into a fist.

"We've interviewed a lot of people," the detective answers carefully. "Who was the last person to see you before the fight?"

Vrislana wrinkles her nose. "That I know about...probably Eridan, uh, Daniel Potter. ...Oh, shit." She breaks into a grin. "Hahahaha. I bet he told you I said I had to go deal with her."

"Was that not what you said?"

"Of course it was! I didn't mean I was gonna **kill** her!" She throws up her hands in exaggerated supplication. "God, this is all so stupid! Whoever actually killed her did it after I left."

"You left her alone in the woods?"

"Yeah. I did. She made it clear she didn't wanna talk to me, so I left. She can take care of herself! Or, heh, she could. I always thought she could." Vrislana's face has fallen now. Perhaps reality is finally sinking in - not that of her situation, but that of Kanya's death. "So I left her there, and I didn't go back until...like, six o'clock I think, it was getting sunsetty but not really orange yet, about that time. She wasn't where I'd left her, so I looked around for a while and eventually found her, like I said, right where I buried her."

"What made you decide to go back?"

"Regretting **everything** , duh." She shoots the detective a withering look. "Wouldn't you regret everything after you had a fight with someone you cared a lot about? And actually Eridan **again** ," she adds with a frown, as if just realising how her thoughts had played out, "because I ran into him and he was crying about how he'd punched Simon Captor in the face so hard he knocked him the fuck out - yeah, I don't know how somebody gets knocked out in a nerd fight - and he was all "wweh wweh now Feferi won't sleep with me like ever" or some bullshit, and as mindbendingly pointless as his problems are it made me think maybe I should try to fix things with Kan before it was too late."

Is it just you, or did her voice crack on that last word?

"...But it already was too late. That's my shitty luck for you!"

Her grin is mirthless, all hysteria.

"Whenever I finally realise what I should be doing, it's already too fucking late."

Another flicker, and you're sitting opposite your demon again. You feel jarred - mostly by what you've just witnessed, but partly by the sudden change as well. "That's all of it?"

The demon nods. "That's all of it."

For several moments you say nothing. You know she won't show you again - not without a price you'd rather not pay - so you're forced to turn the scene over in your memory. "Much as I hate to give Vrislana the benefit of any sort of doubt," you say after some thought, "I believe her. She lacks the imagination to fabricate a lie elaborate enough for these purposes. Perhaps for once she truly is the victim of circumstance - apt, considering how she enjoys playing the role whenever anything goes awry." As though a young woman's brutal murder could be described as something going awry. An idea occurs to you, just in time to keep you from becoming maudlin; with an effort of will, you meet your demon's eyes. "Can you tell when someone's lying?"

"Yes."

"Infallibly?"

She smiles. "Yes."

You watch her carefully. "Is it beyond the scope of our contract for you to share that knowledge with me?"

She looks at you over the top of her red-tinted shades. "You know I can't tell you what is and is not beyond the scope of our contract."

Of course she can't. Damn. You'll have to word this carefully. "Based upon simple observation, without the use of any supernatural powers of divination..."

The demon picks up the trailing end of your sentence. "She's probably telling the truth. As you say, she seems to lack much imagination. Besides which, what's her motive? If she did impulsively kill her, where's the murder weapon? And if she was careless enough to let this Anya, presumably a servant or family member - "

"Sister, Anya's her sister."

" - right - if she was careless enough to let Anya catch her with the shovel, why did nobody see her with the weapon?"

"My thoughts exactly." You run your fingers through your hair. God, you're tired. "If she's lying, if she's the killer, may you feast upon her immortal soul or whatever it is you do. But presuming for the moment that she **is** telling the truth, that puts us back at square one - and while Vrislana no doubt deserves to be arrested for something, I'd rather the police didn't use her as a scapegoat."

The demon sits up straighter, as though startled. "You believe they'd do that?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Bluntly? They're ninety-five percent white males. Kanya's family are Iranian immigrants. They don't care who killed her. If they can get someone like Vrislana off the streets, they won't investigate much further."

Something crosses the demon's face - an instant of emotion, flashing by too quickly to see. If it hadn't been for those shades you might've caught it; as it is you can only guess, and your best guess seems unlikely to be accurate. After all, what demon experiences righteous fury? But there, it's gone; she's leaning forward. "You need that murder weapon, little mistress," she says, and then - oh, she's smiling - "Rose Lalonde."

Your name. Your true name. But not all of it. You smile back, finding yourself strangely relieved that she's still who you thought she was - a demon, trying to take your soul. "Nice try."

She snaps her fingers, grinning good-naturedly. "Damn. Middle name?"

"I'm not about to tell you," you answer easily, suspecting she doesn't care. It's dangerous to ascribe fine qualities to a demon, but you're beginning to think she likes playing the game more than winning it.

"Of course you're not." She wrinkles her nose a little into the grin; god, that's cute. "Talk to this Potter boy, though. If he was the last person to see Vrislana before the murder, he may know something he's willing to talk about."

You sigh, massaging the bridge of your nose. "I was afraid you'd say that."

"Not a fan?"

You give her a flat look. "He's possibly the most pathetic individual I've ever encountered and I'm not certain if he covets or despises me."

She smirks. "A recipe for comedy if ever I heard one! Do try to walk past a few reflective surfaces, won't you?"

You smirk back. Are all her smiles so contagious? "I hope you reach out and slap him." She laughs, and despite it all you almost laugh with her - but you hear the key in the lock, the clunk of the front door opening, and that's a more pressing deadline than anything a demon could impose. "That's Mother. You'd better go. I'll call you when I have something."

The demon throws you a playful little salute. "Luck to you, then."

"With Potter or Mother?" you answer - but only to your reflection. Your demon has already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NEXT CHAPTER:**
> 
> Two - Doubt


End file.
